Fruit Galore
Two weeks ago I went with some friends to help a local small-holder harvest his plums from around 60 plum trees. We picked just over 500kgs in the afternoon and, for our time, got back about 80Kgsand some aching limbs. We were also royally entertained for an hour by the small-holder with aperos that were home-made. There was a fad in the 1970s in England to make your own beer and wine; I remember Boots having a whole department selling the kits and cans of grape juice of various sorts. However, rising wages and reducing booze prices, plus the efforts of Camra and new world wines, knocked this little home industry on the head. And, given that good if unsensational wine is cheap in France relative to the UK, I was surprised that the French would try any home-made stuff. But, it appears, they do; and it can be good as an aperitif rather than as a wine to go with a meal.
Afterwards, I took my two cases of plums home and shared them with the neighbours and the Monday evening pizza crowd. The remainder have since been transformed into jars of jam and chutney. I hadn't intended making plum jam but the chutney was always on the agenda. Many years ago in England my mother had wanted to make chutney and dredged up a recipe from a 1940s edition of Good Housekeeping called Old Dower House chutney. We found that, by doubling the amount of spices recommended, we had a very good chutney. As a base it has plums, apples, tomatoes and onions, all in plentiful supply here in autumn. And the small-holder let me pick a couple of handfuls of apples. All that, plus brown sugar, vinegar and plentiful spices (cloves, cinnamon, ginger, allspice, chili and garlic) makes a great chutney. Of which I now have very many jars to give away when invited out and, of course, to eat myself. I know from experience in England that this chutney keeps for 2-3 years (at least) and even gets better the longer it is kept.
And............the local man who sells his produce on the car park wall opposite the Mairie had a notice offering tomatoes, olives and figs today, all at more than reasonable prices. He had, however, run out of figs when I got to him but promised more for Wednesday. So I shall be there on Wednesday. At the supermarket right now they are selling for over 4 euros per kilo, the market not yet being in full flood. If I can get them for less than half of that then the planned fig jam will be on the way.
Weather and Plants
I was very abstemious this time when going back to see my mother in England and came back with only one clematis (Bill Mckenzie) and one succulent (plus, admittedly, a few bags of bulbs). The former are planted already; I need to think about the latter. I was going to plant some of the bulbs in my pots hanging from the balcony but am a bit worried about what winter and spring winds might do to them. A friend from England should be coming out to see me this autumn so I think I may ask her to bring me some bulbs of miniature daffodils/narcissi and plant those in the pots on the balcony.
The weather here has been much as in southern England over the past 2-3 weeks although slightly warmer here; overcast at times, raining at times but with sunny periods. A bit like classic April weather in England. Here, however, the remnants of summer should hang on for a bit longer so we are due for a spell of better weather to come. Whether we get it or not is another matter. Today, anyway, I was able to resume playing boules and didn't play badly.
And A Dog....................
Daniel has gone off on an assignment to La Réunion for ten days and left the care of his dog, Gillette, to myself and various friends. I feel slightly guilty about not saying I would have Gillette with me all the time, although Daniel didn't ask that. He had already arranged with Jean-Marie to walk Gillette in the morning, with Michelline to let it out at midday and asked me simply to feed her in the evening, which I am doing. She seems quite happy with that and, even though when I feed her I stay around for a time so that she can roam the garden, she seems content to return to “captivity” within the house before I leave. So I don't feel too bad about it; but I do wonder.
Monday, 21 September 2009
Thursday, 30 July 2009
Festivals And Jokes
Fête Votive
Last weekend was the Fête Votive in Mollans, which is probably best translated as the annual village fair. However, it doesn't correspond very well to the English version. True there are a couple of stands of games for kids, hooking plastic ducks or shooting ballons, but there's no cake stall, no cream teas and no vegetable/flower show. Instead there are boules competitions, contested by all comers and many do come from neighbouring villages and towns, and three evenings of music and dancing. The bands weren't up to much but that didn't seem to spoil anyone's enjoyment.
The Fête Votive more or less marks the end of the festival “season” in the village, which begins with Feu de la St Jean on the 23rd June. There is another small festival, the festival of the Rue des Granges, which this year is devoted to the theme of music, but that is quite a small event even by village standards. Of course, there are major arts festivals ongoing in Vaison and Avignon but they don't count as village life.
French And Territory
I was struck once again by a difference between village life here and in England when an unknown (to me) girl turned up at boules the other day. She appeared to be known to Kevyn, Daniel's son, but was certainly not one of his usual retinue of girlfriends. Daniel explained the connection, which was more or less as follows. Daniel had met the girl somewhere and, on hearing her surname, mentioned that he had known soneone of the same name when he was young. This girl turned out to be the grandaughter of Daniel's old friend, whom Daniel hadn't seen since his youth. The old friend was now living in nearby Malaucene.
People here seem much more often to retain connections with their early stamping grounds than I have found to be the case in England. Why? I believe that land ownership could explain it. How often in Enland do we find people who own small plots of land around places where they grew up. Very seldom, I think. In England, I very rarely met anyone who owned any land: a large house and garden perhaps, perhaps even several houses, but not small plots of land. French inheritance law tends to keep land in the family and, unless the land is obviously commercially very valuable, in the family it tends to stay. There is a lot more land in France than in England (which also makes it de facto less likely to be commercially valuable) and if you have a plot or plots of land you naturally tend to retain a connection with that place. That is my explanation, until I get a better one.
Joke
Pizza evenings tend to mean jokes. A bartender in a small village who had exceedingly strong hands used to squeeze lemons and nobody in the village had ever managed to extract another drop of juice from a lemon after he had squeezed it. So he put up a notice in the bar for the benefit over anyone passing through offering a 100 euro prize for a 5 euro stake if anyone could get more juice out of lemon after he had squeezed it. Over the following months several strong men tried but none
succeeded. Then, one day, a rather weedy, besuited individual came into the bar, saw the notice and asked to take up the challenege, much to the amusement of the others in the bar. At first, the barman was reluctant to take the man's five euros. However, the newcomer persisted so in the end the barman took a lemon and, to knowing smiles all round, squeezed the lemon apparently dry. The newcomer then took the squeezed lemon, squeezed hard himself and managed to extract not one but several more drops of juice. Everyone in the bar was astonished; after all, how could such a weedy individual extract more juice than the barman? The newcomer was asked what he did in life to enable him to carry out such a feat? . He replied, “I am a tax inspector”.
Last weekend was the Fête Votive in Mollans, which is probably best translated as the annual village fair. However, it doesn't correspond very well to the English version. True there are a couple of stands of games for kids, hooking plastic ducks or shooting ballons, but there's no cake stall, no cream teas and no vegetable/flower show. Instead there are boules competitions, contested by all comers and many do come from neighbouring villages and towns, and three evenings of music and dancing. The bands weren't up to much but that didn't seem to spoil anyone's enjoyment.
The Fête Votive more or less marks the end of the festival “season” in the village, which begins with Feu de la St Jean on the 23rd June. There is another small festival, the festival of the Rue des Granges, which this year is devoted to the theme of music, but that is quite a small event even by village standards. Of course, there are major arts festivals ongoing in Vaison and Avignon but they don't count as village life.
French And Territory
I was struck once again by a difference between village life here and in England when an unknown (to me) girl turned up at boules the other day. She appeared to be known to Kevyn, Daniel's son, but was certainly not one of his usual retinue of girlfriends. Daniel explained the connection, which was more or less as follows. Daniel had met the girl somewhere and, on hearing her surname, mentioned that he had known soneone of the same name when he was young. This girl turned out to be the grandaughter of Daniel's old friend, whom Daniel hadn't seen since his youth. The old friend was now living in nearby Malaucene.
People here seem much more often to retain connections with their early stamping grounds than I have found to be the case in England. Why? I believe that land ownership could explain it. How often in Enland do we find people who own small plots of land around places where they grew up. Very seldom, I think. In England, I very rarely met anyone who owned any land: a large house and garden perhaps, perhaps even several houses, but not small plots of land. French inheritance law tends to keep land in the family and, unless the land is obviously commercially very valuable, in the family it tends to stay. There is a lot more land in France than in England (which also makes it de facto less likely to be commercially valuable) and if you have a plot or plots of land you naturally tend to retain a connection with that place. That is my explanation, until I get a better one.
Joke
Pizza evenings tend to mean jokes. A bartender in a small village who had exceedingly strong hands used to squeeze lemons and nobody in the village had ever managed to extract another drop of juice from a lemon after he had squeezed it. So he put up a notice in the bar for the benefit over anyone passing through offering a 100 euro prize for a 5 euro stake if anyone could get more juice out of lemon after he had squeezed it. Over the following months several strong men tried but none
succeeded. Then, one day, a rather weedy, besuited individual came into the bar, saw the notice and asked to take up the challenege, much to the amusement of the others in the bar. At first, the barman was reluctant to take the man's five euros. However, the newcomer persisted so in the end the barman took a lemon and, to knowing smiles all round, squeezed the lemon apparently dry. The newcomer then took the squeezed lemon, squeezed hard himself and managed to extract not one but several more drops of juice. Everyone in the bar was astonished; after all, how could such a weedy individual extract more juice than the barman? The newcomer was asked what he did in life to enable him to carry out such a feat? . He replied, “I am a tax inspector”.
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
Eating And Language
Eating In Company
One of the big differences in my life here to that in England is the number of times I eat with friends. While in England I could probably count on both hands the number of times I ate with friends in a year and those occasions were mostly in restaurants. When friends are even just 30 miles apart, it always seemed to take a significant effort to arrange to meet up and eat. Here it all seems much simpler.
Part of it may be distance, part may be the meal itself. Part of it also must be the love of food and drink and conviviality. Since most of my friends here are within walking distance or a very short car ride, it's just much easier to get together. And since the meals generally mean giving thought to just one dish, it's easy to invite people off the cuff. Starters are easy (Russian salad with egg, some charcuterie and salad, melon), then the main course, then cheese, then fruit or buy a flan or ice cream or, if I'm energetic, do some pancakes. And that happens here always more than once a week.
This week, for example, Steve and Jo came over to eat on Sunday and I did pork chops à la Estremadura. Pretty simple really. Monday, I was going for a pizza evening when two friends emailed to invite me to eat with them: Anita and Pierre Boillot, he an ex-diplomat mostly in the Middle East and south America and she a Louisianan. They had family staying with them, Pierre's sister who had married an Englishman and who are now living 100 miles north of London. Good conversation and a good meal. Tomorrow, Dave and Hazel, friends of Steve and Jo who have rented a neighbouring house, have invited me to eat. And so it goes on................I'm probably due to make another shepherds' pie for Daniel (it always has to be that when he comes) and there are others whom I shall invite to eat once the annual round of grandchildren visiting has passed, when September comes.
It was never like this in England. Is it France, the make-up of the meals or just small village life? And that's not including the numerous invitations to aperos.
Language
When Steve and Jo came over on Sunday we got to talking about language, Steve having been reading Pinker's “The Language Instinct”. So I lent him my copy of “Words And Rules” and the Cambridge Encyclopedia of Languages. Language always seems to be a fertile topic of conversation, even if we are (as we often are) just puzzling over French expressions, similarities and disparities with their English equivalents and their derivations.
It's surprising how often, usually in pizza evening discussions, we discover that French and English expressions have exact equivalents. On the other hand, if the similes/metaphors are obvious and from common life experiences, perhaps it's not so surprising. It's the differences that are more interesting: while we English sometimes have a frog in our throat the French have a cat in theirs. We go for the sound, they go for the feeling. The French actually make a lot of use of cats in colloquialisms; what have cats done to deserve this?
Added to all this is the use of particular words. I feel that that best basis for understanding usage is to try to get at the root meaning of the word (the meaning not the lexicography), which usually involves getting back to the Latin or Greek origin. However, how the French came up with tiring (fatiguer) a salad rather than tossing it still defeats me.
Charles Simonyi at Microsoft tried for years to formulate a language (although he refused to call it such) of what he called “intentions” (meanings?), a formulation that would be computer-language independent. Thus, an intentional object would have a computer language as a method for expressing it. For some time (early 90s) Simonyi would talk about nothing else. It no doubt had its fallout in Microsoft's intermediate language but never really got anywhere (as far as I know). It always struck me as Chomsky-esque territory at its most theoretical and I ventured into that only with the most awful dread.
One of the big differences in my life here to that in England is the number of times I eat with friends. While in England I could probably count on both hands the number of times I ate with friends in a year and those occasions were mostly in restaurants. When friends are even just 30 miles apart, it always seemed to take a significant effort to arrange to meet up and eat. Here it all seems much simpler.
Part of it may be distance, part may be the meal itself. Part of it also must be the love of food and drink and conviviality. Since most of my friends here are within walking distance or a very short car ride, it's just much easier to get together. And since the meals generally mean giving thought to just one dish, it's easy to invite people off the cuff. Starters are easy (Russian salad with egg, some charcuterie and salad, melon), then the main course, then cheese, then fruit or buy a flan or ice cream or, if I'm energetic, do some pancakes. And that happens here always more than once a week.
This week, for example, Steve and Jo came over to eat on Sunday and I did pork chops à la Estremadura. Pretty simple really. Monday, I was going for a pizza evening when two friends emailed to invite me to eat with them: Anita and Pierre Boillot, he an ex-diplomat mostly in the Middle East and south America and she a Louisianan. They had family staying with them, Pierre's sister who had married an Englishman and who are now living 100 miles north of London. Good conversation and a good meal. Tomorrow, Dave and Hazel, friends of Steve and Jo who have rented a neighbouring house, have invited me to eat. And so it goes on................I'm probably due to make another shepherds' pie for Daniel (it always has to be that when he comes) and there are others whom I shall invite to eat once the annual round of grandchildren visiting has passed, when September comes.
It was never like this in England. Is it France, the make-up of the meals or just small village life? And that's not including the numerous invitations to aperos.
Language
When Steve and Jo came over on Sunday we got to talking about language, Steve having been reading Pinker's “The Language Instinct”. So I lent him my copy of “Words And Rules” and the Cambridge Encyclopedia of Languages. Language always seems to be a fertile topic of conversation, even if we are (as we often are) just puzzling over French expressions, similarities and disparities with their English equivalents and their derivations.
It's surprising how often, usually in pizza evening discussions, we discover that French and English expressions have exact equivalents. On the other hand, if the similes/metaphors are obvious and from common life experiences, perhaps it's not so surprising. It's the differences that are more interesting: while we English sometimes have a frog in our throat the French have a cat in theirs. We go for the sound, they go for the feeling. The French actually make a lot of use of cats in colloquialisms; what have cats done to deserve this?
Added to all this is the use of particular words. I feel that that best basis for understanding usage is to try to get at the root meaning of the word (the meaning not the lexicography), which usually involves getting back to the Latin or Greek origin. However, how the French came up with tiring (fatiguer) a salad rather than tossing it still defeats me.
Charles Simonyi at Microsoft tried for years to formulate a language (although he refused to call it such) of what he called “intentions” (meanings?), a formulation that would be computer-language independent. Thus, an intentional object would have a computer language as a method for expressing it. For some time (early 90s) Simonyi would talk about nothing else. It no doubt had its fallout in Microsoft's intermediate language but never really got anywhere (as far as I know). It always struck me as Chomsky-esque territory at its most theoretical and I ventured into that only with the most awful dread.
Monday, 20 July 2009
Artists, Apricots and Bastille Day
Bastille Day
July 14th was duly celebrated in the village with a bit of flag waving and, much more importantly, an extremely agreeable evening of alfresco entertainment in front of the Bar du Pont. The centre of the village was blocked to traffic, the Bar put on a meal of lamb chops, chips, cheese and ice cream and the chairs and tables in the Place Banche Cour in front of the Bar gradually swelled with people who had simply come to drink, listen, maybe dance and generally socialise, around 300 of them packed into the tiny square.
It's one of my favourite evenings, along with the Feu de la St Jean, because all ages come. The entertainment this year was a very basic band and a surprisingly good girl singer. It's amazing what an atmosphere you can conjure up with a squeeze box, a piano, a bit of percussion, a good singer and the right tunes. The entertainment started, the statutory Provencal half-hour late, with the similarly statutory Marseillaise, and continued until after midnight. I ate, drank, chatted, wandered among the tables seeing friends and then engaged in my favourite sport of people watching. Everyone seemed relaxed and happy and the night was pleasantly warm without being too sultry. A lovely evening.
Artists In The Streets
The weekend, the third in July, is when artists both local and from various parts of France, display their paintings in the streets of the mediaeval part of the village. I didn't wander round them this year. Usually, I go to the Mairie to get myself a costune and take part in the parade through the village of some 60 of us all dressed in costumes dating from the Middle Ages through to the 18th century. This year however, Pierre Dieux, who organises the parade wanted a year off so there was no parade; plenty of visitors, though, with cars parked all round the village.
Previous years walking through the old village in procession have taught me that unfortunately there is seldom much work of any originality among the paintings displayed. Whilst nothing descends to the extreme banality of the classic large-eyed boy/girl with a tear in one-eye, a very large proportion consist of “typical” Provence scenes (fields of lavender/sunflowers, dotted with the odd cabin roofed with semi-circular tiles). The prices posted for these works show more imagination than the paintings themselves, a triumph of hope over expectation. This, despite he fact that there are three prizes of various sorts on offer. I find it all rather depressing and would much rather gaze into the studio window next door to admire the work of my artist neighbour, Florence Gosset.
Unfortunately too, the entertainment on offer in the evening, in the 14th of July square, behind the Mairie, was similarly banal. Posters proclaimed high-kicking girls in exotic feathered costumes, bare-breasted too. It's not my preferred form of entertainment but a good show of the sort can be enjoyable. Two girls alone, though, struggle to provide the same elan that a chorus line can (-can). The crooners, male and female, were just that and the songs uninspired. One singer did get her tits out (appeared in a transparent bra) but the effect was sleazy, almost obscene, in that there appeared no reason for it. The idea, presumably, was to titillate (excuse the pun) but the effect (on me) was almost the opposite.
Nonetheless, since the entertainment was free it is hard to quibble too much and I quite enjoyed myself sitting watching people as much as the stage. And most people seemed to be enjoying themselves. The sky helped, turning at one stage to a deep velvet blue. Really, the skies in Provence have to be seen to be believed. However, I decided that an hour of the entertainment was enough and left before the grand finale(?).
Almost Clochemerle
I commented previously on the beautiful stone wall built to hide the wheelie bins for our street. Ah, but there was a problem, almost a Clochemerle moment. The workmen who built the wall moved the bins originally; they had to in order to start work. But whose job was it to move them back behind the new wall? The workmen had long gone and it wasn't the job of the binmen. The matter probably had to be referred to the commune for arbitration. However, my neighbour Jean-Marc, simply took the job on himself, since the bins were then parked in front of his house, and moved the bins the 20 yards to their original position. It was brave of him: there could have been a binman strike, a dispute over commune power usurped and heaven knows what but all is calm in the street this morning so presumably the matter is resolved.
Apricots Galore
The apricots here have to be tasted to be believed. Some large as peaches, some red and gold in colour, they are a delight. And there seems to be a glut this year. At the depot by the boules court, small lorries packed with cases of them have been arriving by the dozen to unload and huge pantechnicons blocking the road to take them away. In the markets they are now below a euro a kilo, a very small price for a piece of gastronomic heaven. However, I have already made around 4 kilos of jam and friend Jo has amassed some 42 jars of it so the only thing left to do is eat them while they are still around. Next up are figs!
July 14th was duly celebrated in the village with a bit of flag waving and, much more importantly, an extremely agreeable evening of alfresco entertainment in front of the Bar du Pont. The centre of the village was blocked to traffic, the Bar put on a meal of lamb chops, chips, cheese and ice cream and the chairs and tables in the Place Banche Cour in front of the Bar gradually swelled with people who had simply come to drink, listen, maybe dance and generally socialise, around 300 of them packed into the tiny square.
It's one of my favourite evenings, along with the Feu de la St Jean, because all ages come. The entertainment this year was a very basic band and a surprisingly good girl singer. It's amazing what an atmosphere you can conjure up with a squeeze box, a piano, a bit of percussion, a good singer and the right tunes. The entertainment started, the statutory Provencal half-hour late, with the similarly statutory Marseillaise, and continued until after midnight. I ate, drank, chatted, wandered among the tables seeing friends and then engaged in my favourite sport of people watching. Everyone seemed relaxed and happy and the night was pleasantly warm without being too sultry. A lovely evening.
Artists In The Streets
The weekend, the third in July, is when artists both local and from various parts of France, display their paintings in the streets of the mediaeval part of the village. I didn't wander round them this year. Usually, I go to the Mairie to get myself a costune and take part in the parade through the village of some 60 of us all dressed in costumes dating from the Middle Ages through to the 18th century. This year however, Pierre Dieux, who organises the parade wanted a year off so there was no parade; plenty of visitors, though, with cars parked all round the village.
Previous years walking through the old village in procession have taught me that unfortunately there is seldom much work of any originality among the paintings displayed. Whilst nothing descends to the extreme banality of the classic large-eyed boy/girl with a tear in one-eye, a very large proportion consist of “typical” Provence scenes (fields of lavender/sunflowers, dotted with the odd cabin roofed with semi-circular tiles). The prices posted for these works show more imagination than the paintings themselves, a triumph of hope over expectation. This, despite he fact that there are three prizes of various sorts on offer. I find it all rather depressing and would much rather gaze into the studio window next door to admire the work of my artist neighbour, Florence Gosset.
Unfortunately too, the entertainment on offer in the evening, in the 14th of July square, behind the Mairie, was similarly banal. Posters proclaimed high-kicking girls in exotic feathered costumes, bare-breasted too. It's not my preferred form of entertainment but a good show of the sort can be enjoyable. Two girls alone, though, struggle to provide the same elan that a chorus line can (-can). The crooners, male and female, were just that and the songs uninspired. One singer did get her tits out (appeared in a transparent bra) but the effect was sleazy, almost obscene, in that there appeared no reason for it. The idea, presumably, was to titillate (excuse the pun) but the effect (on me) was almost the opposite.
Nonetheless, since the entertainment was free it is hard to quibble too much and I quite enjoyed myself sitting watching people as much as the stage. And most people seemed to be enjoying themselves. The sky helped, turning at one stage to a deep velvet blue. Really, the skies in Provence have to be seen to be believed. However, I decided that an hour of the entertainment was enough and left before the grand finale(?).
Almost Clochemerle
I commented previously on the beautiful stone wall built to hide the wheelie bins for our street. Ah, but there was a problem, almost a Clochemerle moment. The workmen who built the wall moved the bins originally; they had to in order to start work. But whose job was it to move them back behind the new wall? The workmen had long gone and it wasn't the job of the binmen. The matter probably had to be referred to the commune for arbitration. However, my neighbour Jean-Marc, simply took the job on himself, since the bins were then parked in front of his house, and moved the bins the 20 yards to their original position. It was brave of him: there could have been a binman strike, a dispute over commune power usurped and heaven knows what but all is calm in the street this morning so presumably the matter is resolved.
Apricots Galore
The apricots here have to be tasted to be believed. Some large as peaches, some red and gold in colour, they are a delight. And there seems to be a glut this year. At the depot by the boules court, small lorries packed with cases of them have been arriving by the dozen to unload and huge pantechnicons blocking the road to take them away. In the markets they are now below a euro a kilo, a very small price for a piece of gastronomic heaven. However, I have already made around 4 kilos of jam and friend Jo has amassed some 42 jars of it so the only thing left to do is eat them while they are still around. Next up are figs!
Friday, 10 July 2009
In Our Street
Street Party
The first Sunday in July is the day of the street party. Those who live in the rue du Faubourg like to think they're a bit special, more outgoing, friendly and cosmopolitan than the rest of the villagers. And it's certainly true that we're an outgoing and friendly crowd. The street party is a chance to demonstrate this and no other street in the village has its own party. Normally, the street is blocked off to traffic by barriers supplied by the Mairie but these were all in use elsewhere this year so we blocked off the street with cars.
A few years ago frinds as well as inhabitants of the street were invited and numbers rose to nearly 100 but some of the residents objected to the friends so it is just those living in the street at the time who can now attend. There were 56 of us this year. Everybody brings a dish of some sort or some drink and we all share.
Just as we were about to put up the tables the heavens opened and a thunder storm broke. Fortunately it lasted only an hour so we were able to proceed as usual slightly later than planned. I made the mistake of offering Jean-Pierre, who was sitting next to me, a Calvados at the end of the meal. Other empty glasses were quickly presented and three quarters of the contents of the bottle immediately disappeared. I'll make sure I have less than a full bottle to offer next year!
Goodbye To Clochemenle Moments
There have been Clochemerle moments, mentioned previously, when people from the houses around have gathered outside the wash house to discuss what can be done about the wheelie bins across the road from me. Petitions to the Mairie have followed and at last seem to have borne fruit. The bins are now hidden behind a new stone wall. When things get done here, they aren't done by halves. A foundation about a foot thick was laid and breeze block walls, with two openings for the dustmen, were built up on it. These in turn have been covered in rendering at the back and faced with stone in front. It certainly looks better and the stone faced wall in front is actually rather attractive. So no more Clochemerle moments.
Petunias
Petunias can be fickle and mine have certainly not flourished this year as in previous years. The result is that the balcony and hanging baskets don't look anywhere near as eye-catching as they should. I'm wondering whether to persevere with a sub-standard display or whether to replace them; but with what? The obvious replacements are geraniums but I regard red ones, at least, as something of a cliché to be avoided. Whatever I do this year I think I shall plant something other than petunias on the balcony and in the hanging baskets next year.
The first Sunday in July is the day of the street party. Those who live in the rue du Faubourg like to think they're a bit special, more outgoing, friendly and cosmopolitan than the rest of the villagers. And it's certainly true that we're an outgoing and friendly crowd. The street party is a chance to demonstrate this and no other street in the village has its own party. Normally, the street is blocked off to traffic by barriers supplied by the Mairie but these were all in use elsewhere this year so we blocked off the street with cars.
A few years ago frinds as well as inhabitants of the street were invited and numbers rose to nearly 100 but some of the residents objected to the friends so it is just those living in the street at the time who can now attend. There were 56 of us this year. Everybody brings a dish of some sort or some drink and we all share.
Just as we were about to put up the tables the heavens opened and a thunder storm broke. Fortunately it lasted only an hour so we were able to proceed as usual slightly later than planned. I made the mistake of offering Jean-Pierre, who was sitting next to me, a Calvados at the end of the meal. Other empty glasses were quickly presented and three quarters of the contents of the bottle immediately disappeared. I'll make sure I have less than a full bottle to offer next year!
Goodbye To Clochemenle Moments
There have been Clochemerle moments, mentioned previously, when people from the houses around have gathered outside the wash house to discuss what can be done about the wheelie bins across the road from me. Petitions to the Mairie have followed and at last seem to have borne fruit. The bins are now hidden behind a new stone wall. When things get done here, they aren't done by halves. A foundation about a foot thick was laid and breeze block walls, with two openings for the dustmen, were built up on it. These in turn have been covered in rendering at the back and faced with stone in front. It certainly looks better and the stone faced wall in front is actually rather attractive. So no more Clochemerle moments.
Petunias
Petunias can be fickle and mine have certainly not flourished this year as in previous years. The result is that the balcony and hanging baskets don't look anywhere near as eye-catching as they should. I'm wondering whether to persevere with a sub-standard display or whether to replace them; but with what? The obvious replacements are geraniums but I regard red ones, at least, as something of a cliché to be avoided. Whatever I do this year I think I shall plant something other than petunias on the balcony and in the hanging baskets next year.
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Summer and Eagles
First Day Of Summer?
The locals seem to be slightly out on the first day of summer but maybe the tradition dates back before anyone did the calculations. So, the 23rd of June is the Feu de la St Jean, a celebration of the first day of summer. The centre of the village is shut off to traffic and a large contingent of villagers congregates in front of the Bar du Pont to eat, drink and listen/dance to a band. When darkness descends, a bonfire is lit beneath the bridge over the Ouvèze river. The first year I was here the bonfire was actually on the bridge and the fire brigade had to stand by to see it didn't get out of hand. Since the, it's been down on a stone bank in the middle of the river, presumably because there's plenty of water around to put it out, if necessary.
Two things contrast with my English experience. Firstly, I've never lived anywhere in England where this kind of thing happened, except some vague memory of a street party in London at the time of the current Queen's coronation. Secondly, all ages come: grandparents, parents, adolescents, kids, dogs, cats, etc, and everyone seems to have a good time. It really is a family occasion.
A couple of years ago the entertainment was a couple playing the guitar and singing Brassens songs. Most of the people were singing along to the well-known songs, which are generally pretty bawdy. You can't really dance to Brassens but a number of 6-7 year-olds weren't to be put off and duly bopped away to the music. I can't think of anywhere else where you would happily have teeny boppers dancing away to songs with words like “when Margot undid her bra” and “I took her into the countryside and lifted up her skirt to introduce her to nature”. Nowhere but in France.
Dog Fight
I was playing boules a couple of days a go when we all stopped and looked up into the sky. A dogfight was going on between an eagle and a number of house martins. The eagle had somehow got amongst a flock of them and was desperately trying to catch one. Every time it got near one, the house martin would swerve or turn up or down at the last minute. We watched fascinated for a while but didn't see the eagle have any success. It must have been like some of the scenes over Britain at the time of the second world war.
The locals seem to be slightly out on the first day of summer but maybe the tradition dates back before anyone did the calculations. So, the 23rd of June is the Feu de la St Jean, a celebration of the first day of summer. The centre of the village is shut off to traffic and a large contingent of villagers congregates in front of the Bar du Pont to eat, drink and listen/dance to a band. When darkness descends, a bonfire is lit beneath the bridge over the Ouvèze river. The first year I was here the bonfire was actually on the bridge and the fire brigade had to stand by to see it didn't get out of hand. Since the, it's been down on a stone bank in the middle of the river, presumably because there's plenty of water around to put it out, if necessary.
Two things contrast with my English experience. Firstly, I've never lived anywhere in England where this kind of thing happened, except some vague memory of a street party in London at the time of the current Queen's coronation. Secondly, all ages come: grandparents, parents, adolescents, kids, dogs, cats, etc, and everyone seems to have a good time. It really is a family occasion.
A couple of years ago the entertainment was a couple playing the guitar and singing Brassens songs. Most of the people were singing along to the well-known songs, which are generally pretty bawdy. You can't really dance to Brassens but a number of 6-7 year-olds weren't to be put off and duly bopped away to the music. I can't think of anywhere else where you would happily have teeny boppers dancing away to songs with words like “when Margot undid her bra” and “I took her into the countryside and lifted up her skirt to introduce her to nature”. Nowhere but in France.
Dog Fight
I was playing boules a couple of days a go when we all stopped and looked up into the sky. A dogfight was going on between an eagle and a number of house martins. The eagle had somehow got amongst a flock of them and was desperately trying to catch one. Every time it got near one, the house martin would swerve or turn up or down at the last minute. We watched fascinated for a while but didn't see the eagle have any success. It must have been like some of the scenes over Britain at the time of the second world war.
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
Fruit, roses, etc
Fruit, Fruit, Fruit,.....
The fruit season is now in full swing. Even the strawberries, which were first, are still going strong although the markets haven't yet started offering several kilos for a few euros for jam making. The cherries, which were second are also still around and the village man who sells his own stuff opposite the Mairie is selling a white variety for a euro a kilo. Apricots the size of peaches are plentiful and the peaches themselves are now fully ripe. Add the Charentais melons to that lot and there really is a cornucopia of fruit. Jam making is definitely just around the corner.
Rose Identified
I gave a rose to friends Steve and Jo several years ago to plant by their pool and it has bloomed magnificently and repeatedly. However, I had forgotten which variety it was although I knew whom I bought it from, a man in the Nyons market. I've now tracked down the name: it's Pegasus. I shall get one for myself if I can find one.
Watering
Watering is now a constant chore with the weather consistently in the 30s. As Steve and Jo are away there is their garden to look after too, as well as my own, although there is Hallie to help with the former. Two of my clematises still haven't bloomed so I have yet to discover whether the colour it said on the ticket (blue in each case) is actually the colour they are; it isn't always the case with flowers bought in the market.
Eating Outside
Eating out side is always one of the big pleasures here at this time of the year, morning noon and night. Had Hallie round for a meal on Sunday and we ate on the balcony around 9.00 in the evening. Lent Hallie my DVDs of The Jewel in the Crown and those are now occupying a large part of her time.
Translation
My first success with translation work apart from the guided tour of Mollans. Going to pick up some Viognier which I had heard they had in bag-in-box at the Rieu Frais vineyard in St Jalle, I also picked up the Ehnglish translation of their brochure. The woman who gave it to me said to let her know if there were any mistakes. Well, it was a brave effort but trying to make changes was a hopeless job; it was easier to translate from the French again, which I duly did. Took to the vineyard and said they could have it for free as long as they acknowledged my translation work. They were very grateful and insisted I take a couple of bottles of wine: a Viognier and a Cabernet sauvignon.
Rieu Frais is a good example of a vineyard that produces very good wine but is outside the AOC area and so has to classify all its wines as Vin de Table. It really makes even more of a nonsense of the AOC system.
The fruit season is now in full swing. Even the strawberries, which were first, are still going strong although the markets haven't yet started offering several kilos for a few euros for jam making. The cherries, which were second are also still around and the village man who sells his own stuff opposite the Mairie is selling a white variety for a euro a kilo. Apricots the size of peaches are plentiful and the peaches themselves are now fully ripe. Add the Charentais melons to that lot and there really is a cornucopia of fruit. Jam making is definitely just around the corner.
Rose Identified
I gave a rose to friends Steve and Jo several years ago to plant by their pool and it has bloomed magnificently and repeatedly. However, I had forgotten which variety it was although I knew whom I bought it from, a man in the Nyons market. I've now tracked down the name: it's Pegasus. I shall get one for myself if I can find one.
Watering
Watering is now a constant chore with the weather consistently in the 30s. As Steve and Jo are away there is their garden to look after too, as well as my own, although there is Hallie to help with the former. Two of my clematises still haven't bloomed so I have yet to discover whether the colour it said on the ticket (blue in each case) is actually the colour they are; it isn't always the case with flowers bought in the market.
Eating Outside
Eating out side is always one of the big pleasures here at this time of the year, morning noon and night. Had Hallie round for a meal on Sunday and we ate on the balcony around 9.00 in the evening. Lent Hallie my DVDs of The Jewel in the Crown and those are now occupying a large part of her time.
Translation
My first success with translation work apart from the guided tour of Mollans. Going to pick up some Viognier which I had heard they had in bag-in-box at the Rieu Frais vineyard in St Jalle, I also picked up the Ehnglish translation of their brochure. The woman who gave it to me said to let her know if there were any mistakes. Well, it was a brave effort but trying to make changes was a hopeless job; it was easier to translate from the French again, which I duly did. Took to the vineyard and said they could have it for free as long as they acknowledged my translation work. They were very grateful and insisted I take a couple of bottles of wine: a Viognier and a Cabernet sauvignon.
Rieu Frais is a good example of a vineyard that produces very good wine but is outside the AOC area and so has to classify all its wines as Vin de Table. It really makes even more of a nonsense of the AOC system.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)